I love anime. I love Asian horror movies. And I especially just love random things that make me say “Because… Japan”. I mean, those awesome little people on those little islands probably have a lot of radiation in their brains to come up with the stuff they do. Without them, half of my hobbies would be gone. So thank you Japanese people, thank you for helping geeking up the interwebs and my free time.
There’s so many things that you can find just sitting in the weird part of the internet… and it’s somehow the creation of Japan.
Take this video that I just saw today. What the frack is that? It’s a muthajumpin super large cat. And it only appeared because chewing that gum makes you feel like the meow version of Falcor is toting you around for some reason. That is a load of awesome to brighten anyone’s crappy day.
And this link. Oh my sweet baby hay-soos. Who would think that Iron Man and Sailor Moon mashup would make so much sense in my brain? I’m an old school Sailor Moon fan, and I’m very much a fan of Robert Downey Jr’s take on the iron man. This. This is art. This is what I try to look at every couple of days when I lose hope in humanity. I don’t need puppies. I need sailor iron man to keep the doctor away.
And the anime version of Doctor Who. This is one of those things that you stumble across that you never knew you were missing in life until you saw it. Granted, out of all of these I’m not sure if the guy who made it was Japanese, but the feel is so very Japanepic.
Last but not least, I love horror and action movies that are really bad… B movies. And I really love Japanese B movies. And the one near and dear to my heart is Robogeisha. People I have this on DVD. I know the trailer by heart. It is a masterpiece of wackiness, and if you don’t find this hilarious there is something wrong with you and I’m sorry for your LIFE.
Okay… my bit of randomness is done. Carry on with your regularly scheduled program.
So, when I come home after work, I throw my bag down and instead of getting out of uniform, I run right to my couch. Of course, that’s where my laptop is and yes, I may have a small internet addiction, but that’s not it. On weekends, Fridays where I don’t go out. I fall asleep on my couch. The Monster Teen has learned not to try to make me go to my room. He just turns off all the lights. I have a pillow and blanket there.
My couch is my inanimate boyfriend. I name him forever more… Hector.
This is not Hector. Hector is more handsome in a solid sage green. And he’s bigger. Bigger is better when it comes to my sofa Hector.
Hector is there for me. We sit comfortably together. He doesn’t tell me I’m fat (even though I’ve lost over 25 pounds in the past 2 months, go me!). Hector doesn’t care if I decide to hang with him in PJs, unbrushed teeth, and my hair a mess with no makeup. Hector is the PERFECT inanimate boyfriend.
He’s not like my bed. Cold and empty because my picky butt still hasn’t found someone I’m willing to share it with, no matter how many online dating sites I join.
Oh god, its depressingly hilarious that I have a closer relationship with a frackin couch than any man right now.
For that reason, I’m going out on a date today with someone who while attractive, may be just trying to see the dimensionthe5th knickers color. But, as much as Hector means to me, this relationship is bad for my mental health!
As Shang Tsung from the awesome first Mortal Kombat movie said “Save your pity for the weak!” Best line of one of the greatest Action B-movies ever.
YESSSS!!!!!!
I don’t know if it is because of how I was raised, or my time in the military, or just my personality, but I hate when people feel sorry for themselves. Heck, I hate myself when I get all weepy and depressed. But it seems many people in this day and age think that if they stub a toe, or don’t win an award they should be coddled and given a cookies.
I’m all out of cookies you whiny mustardbustard. I’m on a diet! I drink poop tea! (Some stupid weight loss tea that seems to make my insides liquefy).
Frack you Morpheus! Frack you and your no cookie having butt!
I think it has to do with the mentality that everyone’s a winner from out of the womb. Babies participate in a game, a sport, and everyone is supposed to let the room. If children are playing as a group, EVERY last snotty nosed ankle biter should get a trophy, even little John-boy, who stood there digging in his butt for gold for a few hours. Give that stank brown hand a trophy!
People aren’t honest with their kids. They praise my son being self-sufficient, but gasp when I say I never let him win on a game with me. And that I flat-out answer honestly any question he asks about life. To them, it’s too embarrassing. Why the frack did you have kids? Did you think it was going to be like a Hallmark movie where nothing bad or uncomfortable ever happens? Did you hit your head after pushing your monstrosity out and forget the world we live in?
You are setting up your child to not have realistic expectations, and to get wedgies everyday, you punk.
And then those pinks raise punks to grow up to be… Grown up punks. And they get to a college, and whine about how hard it is. And they expect a degree to be handed to them. And then they get a job, and they whine about how hard THAT is. And why aren’t they running things by now when they have the life and work experience of a gnat?
Or maybe they are just those people who have had a rough hand in life. Dog and every family member dead, a disease that’s worse than Mr. Glass in Unbreakable. Just incredibly poopified life. And I have a little empathy, to a point. But Dear God day in and day out I say hi and you start to list the reasons why you’d be better off dead? I might just hand you a rope and knife. Remember, not ACROSS the wrists.
I’m just saying…
Sorry (not really), I’m just lately fed up with the in person pity parties people like to throw in my face. I’d much rather read about in online. At least on Facebook if you go all F*** My Life crazy, I can click Like. And you can sit and wonder if I’m sharing in, or laughing at your sadness.
So today, I misheard lyrics to a song that my son was singing. I swear that I heard Grilled Cheese Ninja somewhere in there. And decided that it should from now on be my cat’s superhero name. Even cats need superhero names, dontcha know! So if I mention a four-legged she-devil by the name of Grilled Cheese Ninja, I’m talking about my crazy cat.
And it’s cool to make up nicknames for people. I seriously do it all the time. Especially with my students that have weird names. It’s not to offend them, its how I remember. I’m not going to remember a name that has no vowels. I gotta find something to call you where it doesn’t sound like I’m hacking a loogie or cursing in chinese.
What I can’t stand is those that make up their own nicknames. It’s all over the book of face. And usually, I’d say 75 percent of the time, of the ghetto/hood/trailer persuasion.
You know. The people who use Wal-Mart to debut the latest fashions of “Oh, God Killitwithfire” wear.
I’m all for cosplay. I’m not for Walmart-play.
The other 25 percent are the religious ghetto fabulous persuasion. The people have to put bible quotes up on Sunday, even though Saturday they posted pics of themselves in club clothes before they headed out.
These people have learned the interwebs.
And these people seem to have an animal impulse to add their own nicknames to their natural names on Facebook. I don’t know if its genetic, or group mentality, but what do you expect from people who have names that sound like their mother just picked letters out of a hat and then called it a name.
So Boomquisha Jones already will fail at anything above fast food and doing hair in her kitchen, but on top of that she has her FB handle as Boomquisha “ChocolateThighs” Jones. Boomquisha, I know you are 300 pounds and those chocolate thighs may be actually made of chocolate by now. And then there’s Boomquisha’s brother Antwon “Swaggalous” Jones. And in case you think I’m picking on the brown crayon ghettoness, Antwon’s girlfriend is Brytani “ChicksWannaBMe” Sullivan.
Those 3 I’ve actually seen across FB.
And of course, online religious leaders of FB have names like Tonya “2Blessed2BStressed” Williams, and Chris “RealMenPray” Johnson.
Why the fudge bucket do we need a nickname written into our FB identity?! It’s not even a nickname really. It’s the words that the announcer for HBO boxing before you come out into the ring.
I’m almost willing to believe that all the people are passing secret codes to each other. They are part of the government conspiracy of YOLO.
Maker of YOLO. Leader of the conspiracy of stupid.
All I know is, I can’t take seriously anyone that does this. It equates in my head with all manner of foolishness. Like YOLO, and swag, and other pop inspired shenanigans.
Signed,
Dimension “youonlyliveonceinalternatedimensions” the 5th
I share this because after telling the story to friends, I realized that maybe other mother do not talk with their sons this way. And plus, in hindsight it is hilarious. But when it was happening I was just frustrated.
So my son is a musician, and plays in the school band. The other night he had a performance, and I found out only the night before that he needed to be dressed in a white dress shirt and black slacks. Of course I have to buy this ish short notice!
So after work the next day, I run to the store, estimating my monster teen’s growing size. Pretty much holding things to me and picking a size slightly bigger. It works well for the shirt. For the pants, well, the last size I’d bought him was 32-32. And as a side note, stupid men’s sizes are stupid. Yes, I know they make more sense than a woman’s because you can have a tall skinny dude that needs a tiny waist and all, but it’s too confuzzling for me. So, I just bought his dress slacks in 32-32. I forgot about the one thing my genetics have cursed him with.
My son has a badonkadonk.
This is not a representation of my son. He has a huge butt, but that does not turn him into a monkey.
It is a ridiculously big behind for a male. He’s in denial. He thinks I’m making it up just how like I had him believing for some time that he was a clone after my first of him had an “unfortunate accident.”
But his butt is huge, and when I rushed home, gave him his new clothes to iron and throw on while I changed, I came back out to a visual dilemma.
From behind, his pants looked rather tight. It was showing off just how curvy those back cheeks were.
Me: You gotta go up a size in pants next time.
Monster Teen: Why? They fit.
Me: You look like you are smuggling cantaloupes back there.
Monster Teen: My butt is NOT big Mom!
And then… He turned around and I’m blinded.
Me: Oh no! You can’t go out like that!
MT: What?!
Me: All I see is crotch!
MT: WHAT?!
Me: Your junk is sitting up like a beacon right up front. No one will be able to see anything but that!
You remember in the movie Labyrinth, how we as children were introduced to David Bowie’s package? David Bowie has websites dedicated to his package.
My childhood… if it hadn’t already been sullied, that moment would be now.
Me: Can you move it? Push it down the leg of your pants or something. Ugh. Just, just get it out of everyone’s face!
MT: grumble grumble grumble
Me: BIGGER PANTS. And boxer briefs.
If it wasn’t for having to leave out the door at that moment, I would have NEVER let my poor teen go out the door like that. I know he already catches the eye of many a young female. Well the other night he was serving them free teen on a platter with that get-up. Much to my “ew that’s my son” disgust.
How would a man handle this same situation with his son I wonder?
You’re judging! I can hear your little judgey thoughts.
So, when I was little, I had more than a little fear of the dark. My family (on my mother’s side) is very superstitious, to the point where many claimed to see ghosts. You didn’t open umbrellas indoors or it would cause bad luck, and if a door opened by itself, it was a dead family member coming to visit. People had prophetic dreams, and could interpret if you wanted them to. And never sleep on your back, because the devil could ride your dreams that way.
And as a child I was one of those with prophetic dreams and seeing things that weren’t there. It could all have been my always overactive imagination, or something “otherworldly” (you can’t see it, but I’m totally wagging my fingers and going “whooooo” like a ghost).
Anyway, one house that we lived in North Carolina was haunted. Like there wasn’t enough to hate about living in NC, ugh. In the house, the TVs would cut on and off by themselves. We saw people walking in and out the house out the corner of our eyes, when the doors were closed and locked, and no one else there. I did NOT like to stay alone in the house!
And of course, being a young preteen fan of Stephen King and all horror movies, I couldn’t sleep in the dark. Who knew if something would try to come out the mirror and murder me. Or from under the bed. Or from the closet. In fact, one night I was having a very vivid dream. There was something in the corner of my room, tan trench coat, fedora pulled down low, and glowing red eyes. It didn’t move, just stood in the corner of the room, with wafting evil filling my brain. I turn the light on, and it’s still there and in fact begins to move toward me. Then I wake up and really turn the light on and its gone. That is still one of the creepiest frackin dreams I’ve ever had, and I dream in color, with soundtrack, and midget’s always like to visit.
So, anyway, around 20 or so I learned to sleep without a lamp or night-light. Yes, it took THAT LONG. All I have to do is view where everything is before I cut off the light, and then rush to the bed, with eyes tight. I don’t EVER look at the mirror, because something maybe watching me from there.
But the other night… I heard noises in my bedroom. I’m sure it was a box that I had rifled through earlier, and things were still settling in there. And maybe I was hearing my cat that likes to scratch at the door sometimes since I refuse to wake up to cat sleeping on my face. But yeah, there were noises. So like a 10-year-old the lights stayed on, and I slept with the lights on. I don’t care if I’m past 30. Judge me all you want!
The night is dark and full of terrors O_O (GoT reference)
Random things irritate me. If you’ve read other posts of mine, you’ve realized that. But today, little things in the office seemed to combine and transform themselves like Voltron into a day of constant irritation. Soooo, onto the list of things that for some reason drive me batty at work:
1. Restroom Light Warriors.
Okay, look, I know we need to practice light conservation and all, but there are 3 stalls in the restroom closest to my office, and students and staff constantly going in and out all throughout the day (not my ninja restroom: see here: http://dimensionthe5th.com/2013/04/10/first-world-female-problems-girls-dont-poop/). About 3 times a week, I walk in and someone has turned off the light. Why does this bother me? Because I’ve watched enough weird and scary movies that I expect to find a dead body. Most likely a student of mine, after I’ve told them why they suck.
2. Over the Shoulder Ninjas.
I used to have a real office, with a door and all at my last office. Now I have a cubicle. And I absolutely HATE people who like to sit there and look over your shoulder for a while before they let you know they are there. It doesn’t matter if I’m doing work, or reading an article on why the Song of Ice and Fire series is sexist. I have deployed multiple times and I may become violent at any time. And since I’m sitting, you may get punch in your twig or hoo-hah. Keep messing with me -_-
3. Bubble breakers.
Seriously, if we are really cool, by all means sit close to me. I still may say that you are in my frackin personal space. But if I don’t know you all that well, why the frack are we within kissing distance of each other?! I mean face on! Turn to the side or something so I don’t feel like I’m getting breath particles. I don’t know where your mouth has been. I’m a smoker, so I know better than to waft my smoky breath right at people. But unless you are brushing after every meal, dude, I don’t need to see your leftover meal on your teeth in 4d.
4. Toilet Shedders.
Oh my god, the many NSFW work photos I went through by typing in pubic hair. WTF was I thinking?
Okay yes, I have a serious issue with restroom everything it seems. But have you ever went into a stall, about to sit down and see secret lady fur atop the seat? *Shudder* I mean, I may trim the lady bush, but any straggler hair goes down the shower drain. Why are the ladies shedding like my cat sheds on my carpet?! And why are you not at least trimming that bad boy between your legs, because that hair is LONG. I mean, are you growing out an afro? Planning to get dreads with beads all dangling? Why are they falling out all over the toilet? Are you balding down there? I really don’t like focusing on other women’s ladies parts, but this is becoming a huge concern for me.
Other than that, I really like my office. The people are really weird just like me. But I swear if this Pubic Conspiracy continues I will take photos and post pics saying “Have You seen the Owner of these curlies? Please come and pick them up in Stall 3.
See, most guys are all fart jokes and poopy humor right? Or is that just mostly military guys? Anyway, women are opposite. Mostly, until we’re like old as dirt and smell like mothballs and baby powder anyway, we don’t want you to know we fart. Or have to poop. We don’t even want other women to hear us (unless we’re drunk. Whole new ballgame right). So, it’s an issue when the need comes and you work in a big office. It’s even more irritating as a teacher of adults. Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t want to have to use a stall next to my students I was just teaching, especially if I have to number 2. And then see them as I come out to wash my hands. Huuuuumiliating!
So it becomes a search for the empty bathroom for ninja pooping. The bathroom that’s a little out-of-the-way, so usually it’s empty when you sneak in to do the business. Half the time the light is off when you walk in, which makes me a little paranoid that I’ll find a dead student sitting on the potty. Morbid, and weird, but you should know by now that there is no way I can control the wtf-ness that runs through my brain. I just tell my brain that I’ll sit back and let it go crazy… Because it’s just easier than arguing with that heffa.
Anyway, for the time I’ve worked in my office, when I’ve got the BG’s (bubble guts), I can always take care of my business quietly and with skill so no one knows that dimensionthe5th is having a craptastic day. But all things fall apart, and of course I had the most traumatic experience on a day where I shouldn’t have had dairy (lactose intolerant), shouldn’t have taken my fiber pills, and just should have held it in or something. But none of those things happened, and as I walked in, one of the nicest most well-known janitors was coming in to put up supplies. I said frack it because I think she’s going to be right in and out. But then, the senior enlisted servicemember, the boss of bosses walks in. I know because she greets the janitor. And they are talking happily… Until I can hold it back no more! I swear its like a sewage trumpet orchestra. It sounds like one of those situations where you’re not sure if someone had just pooped out their intestines, their soul, and maybe their brain too. Oh god. All I could do was sit there. No way in Hello was I leaving out that stall to see them looking at me like “You nasty mofo!”
So I waited until they left. And ninja-ed back to my office, hoping that somehow if I wasn’t seen for a few days the loud pooper in the bathroom would seep from their minds and be flushed. I’ve also made sure to start searching for a new “perfect” bathroom.
Of course, maybe it’s just all in my mind and no other woman goes through ninja pooping.
*Before I begin… thanks to all who read my last post… I didn’t write it so anyone would think ill or good of me… It’s just an extremely important part of my life I thought I would share, just in case anyone had a similar situation. It’s all about trying to help others right?
On to the crazy…
I know you’re looking at this title saying “WTF DT5, have you finally lost your teacups for good?” No… No… I’m still my optimum level of crazy. With a dash of sugar.
But I wonder if anyone else out there has the twisted way of thinking that I have. See, I’m one of those people who when I think of something really fracked up, I worry if there’s a mind reader around. You know? Like randomly there’s some old dude explaining stuff to a group, and your mind seems to have taken some LSD without your knowledge because:
Suddenly you are imagining this old wrinkled sack of flesh having smexy times.
Ugh. I wish my brain could vomit and leak out my ears. And I hope there wasn’t a Professor Xavier type mutant anywhere near to read all of that.
So, that’s just a small taste of the randomness of my brain. There’s so many weird compartments in here that even I’ve forgotten it. Seriously, my brain and its folds are like an Old Crazy Hoarder Cat Lady’s attic. Full of old dusty weird things…and is that hairball in the corner moving?!
I’ve been in equal parts playing that I’m crazy and then really being off my rocker, that its hard to tell which is which. I’m functioning crazy. I’ve never been committed although one supervisor of mine tried to push for it. I’ve been on many medications, but feel I function better when I’m just high on life. So no need to try to find me, I’m long since past the days where I would be a danger to myself. I just like to joke about 😉
Back to weird thoughts… The truth is, I’ve only thought of actually killing myself twice while I went through two separate bouts of severe depression. Once was as a teen, the other as a young 20 something. While a teen, I didn’t even plan it out really. Just located things I could mix together that would hopefully put me out of my misery. As an adult I actually thought up 2 possible ways that would hopefully not hurt that much, and not take that long. But I never went through with it (obviously, or maybe not). And then I never thought of it again… in the same way.
So, although I didn’t have suicidal thoughts any longer since I’m in optimal functioning crazy mode, I began to have What If/ Choose your own gruesome adventures. But I really didn’t think of it as too weird. Until I opened my mouth around others and realized that it was kind of creepy to them.
For instance, do not energetically say that you heard drowning is the most relaxing way to go, and if you had a choice that’s what you would do, drink and swallow a couple of pills and then swim out into the ocean. People will look at you funny. Or if you talk about every time you’re driving in the mountains, you have this image in your head of hitting the rails and going over car and all down the cliff.
Those kind of conversations seem to only be allowed during deployments. Now, if you’re down in the sand box getting hit with mortar rounds everyday, you can joke about the port-a-potties that have been hit a couple of times, and get promises from your friends that if die on the toilet, they’d at least pull your pants up before anyone else sees what’s left of you. Or that if you get hit by anything, hopefully all you’ll lose is a baby toe… Because, come on, the baby toe isn’t all that important right?
Morbid humor only works with certain people I’ve learned. The anonymous dudes and dudettes of the internet, and about 75 percent of the military. But there’s a time and place and a such thing as going to far. I like not being locked up and going for mental health when I want to, and not on someone else’s orders. To do that, I just have to keep from opening my mouth about random crazy thoughts that may get me locked up. I guess I can still discuss what I’d do during a zombie apocalypse right?
So… After my Monster Teen(* patent pending*) made his YouTube Harlem Shake video, I actually started looking up some others. Didn’t impress me, but maybe that’s because it’s not my egg up there. I wasn’t into planking, because that’s just some special moment helmet and cape stuff to me. I liked Gangnam Style because I was over in Asia when it happened, and had been there for so many years that I couldn’t help but immerse myself somewhat in their culture.
But back to what people are already saying is played out. You know, one of the first things I asked my M.T. was if he knew what the real Harlem shake was. “Yeah, but this is just a fun thing that people are doing.”
Bam! Out of the mouths of babes, or monstrous teenagers.
But some people, my brown crayon color people, are completely upset! It’s a mockery, it’s peach crayon people stealing what makes us, us! As on the YouTube video interviews of the people of actual Harlem say: the Harlem shake is a way of life!” It’s *gasp* racist!
For serious?
Are we for serious here?
One comment I read in an online discussion about Harlem Shakemggedon says it best:
“The Black American Legacy is anger with no resolution. That needs to change.”
Let me clear something up real quick before I go on. I am proud to be black. I like my skin, I like my big lips, I love all the things I can do with my hair, I love my smooth voice, I love that my genetics keep me looking young (or as a white coworker likes to say “Black don’t crack!”). I love the way my Ma taught me to cook, and I love my badonk, no matter how “ignant” it may be right now after I gained a couple of pounds. I was raised to be open and understanding of all cultures, while loving my own.
But a dance doesn’t define me. My people’s history is in my genetic chain, but learning that knowledge and then putting down great works here on this planet until I die defines me. If a dance only created 10-30 years ago in your city (the accounts change with different articles) is the only thing you know of your history, along with a story of Harriet Tubman, Rosa Parks, and MLK that you learned in school during Black History Month… Well I pity you.
In fact, I hear Ursula from the Little Mermaid singing the words “Poooor Unfortunate Soullllls!” (which by the way is the same thing that plays in my head when I see ugly babies).
You want to know who you are? Pick up a daggone book. I remember falling in love with 2 books in Elementary school: Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe, and Elie Wiesel’s Night. Which opened my mind to the plights of my past ancestry and another’s (yes, I read them in Elementary. The nerd is very strong in this one). You want something rooted in your ancient people? There are SO MANY great books on Egyptian/Ethiopian/Kush mythology. You want to know your people? Turn around and speak with the Nigerian braiding your hair that still has family in the “motherland” and watch those awesome Nollywood movies just because they’re awesome. Instead of heading out to the club on Saturday and nursing your headache on Sunday as you are in your finery at church, why not visit one of the many museums that populate the nation that showcase black history, artistry and culture? Or… Just continue to complain about someone stealing your dance, which is somehow a derision of an Ethiopian shoulder dance, while you continue to bump songs about the strip club, and post videos of Lil Boomquisha twerkin at 2 years old. My God.
I’ve seen videos of the Ethiopian shoulder dance. Beautiful, joyful, and steeped in ARTISTRY.
The “original” Harlem Shake, well, I ALWAYS assumed it was thought up after seeing some local crackheads shaking from needing a fix. That’s why seeing my teen in the video have what looks like convulsions in the background… I just said “Meh, close enough.”
My son is going to grow up rich in the history of the people who share his color of skin, along with those who don’t. What is your child going to grow up like, when you tell him/her that their culture was a dance that’s looks like a broken crackhead?
dimensionthe5th 